Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 68882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
She stomps away, and her assistant, Brandon, pauses in the doorway. He looks like he wants to say something. His jaw is clenched.
But then Florence snaps out, “Jesus, Brandon, get over here,” and he hurries off.
“He knows something,” I say, pointing at the doorway.
“He only knows what Florence wants him to know,” Coach says. “He’s an errand boy, nothing more.”
“Okay.” Coach blows out a breath and runs his big, beefy hand down his hang-dog face. “Let’s get this meeting over with. Ike’s already said that he’ll comply with drug testing. We can prove that we don’t have glue anywhere in the facility.”
“What about the playbook?” Sal asks.
“Doesn’t exist,” Coach replies simply. “Let’s go.”
I’m surprised to find Sophie sitting on the couch with Buster snoring away at her feet when I get home around five in the morning.
There’s a single lamp illuminating her as she’s curled up with a book in her hands, and she looks up to watch me walk into the room.
“How was it?”
“Pretty shitty.” I sit next to her and lean my head back on the cushions. “We’ll be denying everything and cooperating with the league to provide proof for all the allegations. I hate Florence. That bitch has no business owning this team. I’m telling you, I think she wants us to lose.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because she tried to push for me to sit out the first four games of the season.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Good question. She said it would show good faith, but the entire team, including all of her own attorneys, said it would only show that I was guilty and that I had something to be ashamed of. She balked at that.”
“She’s stupid,” Sophie says, shaking her head. “Your backup quarterback is a rookie, right?”
“Yeah, and he’s a nice guy, but he’s green and has a lot to learn. He’s not ready to start. If I sit out, we have the possibility of losing all those games, and then our position in the playoffs could be in jeopardy from the start.”
“She just doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Soph replies softly. “Ike, anyone who knows you knows that you didn’t do anything you’re being accused of.”
“That doesn’t matter.” I’m so exhausted that I’m surprised I can stand, but I do and pace to the windows. It’s so dark out that I can’t see the water, but I stare out into the blackness anyway. “What matters is that the press is going to sink their teeth into this and run with it. Fans will talk, and sales could be hurt. Seattle fans are rabid. I could walk out for that first game to nothing but boos.”
“You won’t,” she says, but I shake my head.
“If I had done any of the things I’m accused of, I would be upset, but I would take it on the chin. I fucked up, and these are the consequences. But I didn’t do those things, Soph. And you know, shit like this has always happened.”
“You’ve been accused of cheating before?”
“No, just shit. I feel like when I get ahead, something happens to knock me down a peg. It’s usually my old man pulling this shit on me, so I can’t actually enjoy anything that I’ve worked hard for.”
I stop speaking, and a niggling idea sets up residence in the back of my head. When I turn to Sophie, she’s watching me with wide blue eyes, and I can see that she’s thinking the same thing.
“Ike, you don’t think—”
“No.” I shake my head and pace the room. “Don’t even say it. He wouldn’t do this.”
“You know him,” she says simply. “And you know that he would.”
I blow out a breath and shake my head again. “I know he’s mad. Maybe even hurt, because I really do think that he believes, down to the marrow of his bones, that I owe him everything, and now he’s wallowing in self-pity. But this? No. I refuse to believe it.”
“I know you don’t want to think that your own father could do something like this, but don’t discount it,” she advises. “You’re too smart, Ike. Set your emotions aside and think about this. Is he capable of it?”
I just stare back at her, and I know, down in my gut, the answer to that question.
Hell, yes, he’s capable of it.
I sit next to her again and drop my head in my hands. “He’s my dad.”
“I know.” She scoots over and wraps her arms around me, tugs me into her, and holds on tight. “I’m so sorry, babe.”
“I need to sleep, even if it’s for a couple of hours. I have to be back at the training center at nine for a press conference.”
“That’s in four hours.”
“Yeah. Come on.” I pull her to her feet and lead her upstairs to the bedroom. Buster follows, but he must know that I just need to be with my girl tonight because he curls up on his big, new bed in the corner of the room and goes back to sleep.